Anna Young pirouetted. “See how far out my skirt goes when I turn ‘round and’ round—”

“‘Round and’ round,” Lydia laughed, delighted to be so young herself. God, how beautiful the child was; and even the kitchen—the leaves through the window all waving and alive. The ironing board stood there with the iron upon it, splashed with sunshine. She bent over, saw her own face reflected in the iron, and the smell of freshly ironed clothes rushed to her nostrils. What a fantastic day—the birthday cake on the table—the small guests shortly to arrive.

“Oh, Mama.” Anna Older suddenly bent down and took Lydia’s hand. Lydia’s eyes had been hazy only an instant earlier. Now she stared, with an angry superclear glance, it seemed to Anna, that quite pierced her through. “Go’ way.” The words didn’t quite come out clearly, but their intent was plain.

Lydia’s hand gripped the wheelchair. When she focused on Anna Older, then the child Anna disappeared, and the kitchen. Anna Older was in an incredibly dreary hospital-type room, surrounded by old people who looked half like mummies, half-dead, strapped in chairs; and Anna Older was clearly no beauty herself. Lydia tried to blot out the vision and return to the kitchen, where at least she could cope.

“She doesn’t want a thing to do with me,” Anna Older said, with half a sob. “Roger, you try.”

Lydia frowned. There they were, at her again. Now which Anna was that, and where was Roger?

“Aw, Ma, it’s a girl’s party and I don’t want to go,” Roger said, coming into the kitchen. He wore dirty sneakers and torn jeans.

“Don’t, if you don’t want to,” Lydia said calmly. This kind of remark always disarmed him.

“They’re all little kids, besides. I’m ten,” he said.

“And one day you’ll be eleven,” she laughed. But somehow she knew she was on dangerous ground. One day he’d be eleven, then twenty, then forty, then fifty—

“It’s me, Ma; Roger,” Roger Older said. He was perspiring. He’d never put in such an afternoon in his life. He didn’t know if he could bear to come back again.

But Roger was Lydia’s favorite. Nonplussed, she looked about. Roger Young and Roger Older were each there; the boy in the kitchen, and the man in that awful hospital-type room. Her head throbbed. First the kitchen would disappear, to be replaced by the other room; then the reverse; then, dimly, both would exist together again.

Roger Young was on his way to the dining room desk where Lydia kept all her poetry, notes, books, and papers. He was carrying a glass of pop. She didn’t want him to spill—“Don’t spill that on my things,” she called. “And get away from my desk—”